


To Himling: Part Twelve

by vetiverite



Series: To Himling [12]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Brain Injury, Brothers, Coma, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, Durincest, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, Gentle Sex, Ghost Thorin, Ghost Thrain, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Intrigue, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Tauriel? Who's Tauriel?, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: The approach of strange guests brings on a flurry of preparation; old conflicts are stirred up along with the dust.





	1. Flowers

One hundred and sixty years ago, passing through the Shire en route into exile, Dís saw her first garden. Overwhelmed by snapdragon pink, cornflower blue, and new-leaf green, she promptly burst into tears. 

_Don’t fret, little princess! _a well-meaning servant told her, mistaking rapture for fear. _You won’t see those underground!_

Underground, acres of brilliant crystals flourished in ink-darkness. Dwarven foundries poured forth molten metal so bright you could read by it. Great cities – masterworks in carven stone and soaring space – thrived unseen by Man or Elf. Given these glories, of what use to Khazâd was the surface? 

Yet no crystal cavern ever satisfied Dís as much as that humble garden under the sky. Each fragile blossom sheltered a vital spark unlike any gem’s imprisoned light. A thought struck her then and never left her: _These things are alive, and so am I. We grow best in the sun._

___________________

In his youth, Thorin feared Thráin greatly; Frerin less, and Dís not at all. She regarded her father as one would an old dog: harmless, even laughable, so long as one stands beyond the reach of its chain. 

The day Thráin commanded Dís to stay underground, she burst into disbelieving laughter. She’d recently taken her first commission, a gorget to be carven from the shell of a giant pearlmaker. Thráin might bully her to wear a gown for guests and even threaten to make her marry one, but to force her to deny her craft— impossible! 

Thráin begged to differ. No— Thráin never begged, only differed, and at the top of his lungs: _You’ll stay below like a proper Durin woman!_ He took away Dís’ tools, her pony, her throwing axe, her place at the workshop beside Thorin. He took away her craft, her path. He took away her sky. 

The old dog had teeth after all. 

Powerless to help otherwise, Thorin risked his own hide to steal back his sister’s tools and the priceless pearlmaker shell. As Dís carved in secret, her tears left salty tracks on the beautiful rainbow nacre. 

Not long after, she gave away her harp and let her hair go unwashed and unbraided. When she took Fenja’s shears to all of her gowns, Thráin bade her wear her late mother’s. She hacked those apart, too— and when Thráin summoned her for punishment, she came before him wearing Frerin’s old clothes. 

The moment she turned eighty, she vowed herself to Ganin. Her father hated the match, but what did that matter? Dís would have a good-natured husband who never shouted, only smiled. 

Then Thráin went eastward – forever, as it happened – and Thorin laid the cornerstone of a new house. Upon its completion, Dís abandoned her father’s halls with joy. After long years in darkness she rediscovered Khagal’abad’s palette: subtle slate blue, deep pine-needle green, seafoam silver, the gold of beech and aspen leaves in autumn. Her sons grew up feeling the sun’s warmth on their skins. They did not see the summer caverns until they reached their thirties, and Dís waited until Fíli turned fifty before unlocking the northwest cavern. 

At first her sons held only each other’s hands _(We’re not BABIES!_ Kíli announced) but after ten minutes in the Great Hall, Fíli reached for Dís and Kíli for Thorin. Here quarrelsome Thráin had kept his court— literally kept it, penned up like quail in the dark. His descendants shuddered at its splendor and then turned tail and fled. 

The family spent that afternoon on the hillside, where chicory and sweet chamomile blossoms thrived in full sun. Thorin feinted left and right, enticing Fíli and Kíli to chase him. Their ecstatic shrieks rose and dispersed on the warm spring breeze. Threading her fingers through the fine grass, Dís recalled that long-gone servant’s words – _You won’t see those underground!_ – and with all of her being, she thanked Mahal it was so.


	2. Housekeeping

_The messages have gone. There were hardly enough hawks for all._

With the back of her wrist, Dís wiped sweat and grit from beneath her chin. She, Fenja, and Haya knelt on folded towels to shield their knees from the feast-hall’s stone floor. With hot water and hard-bristled brushes, they attacked years' worth of overlooked grime. Doubtless the Witch of Lórien and her ladies never bent _their_ backs, but the House of Durin did not spurn hard work! 

_Where did they fly? _Haya asked. 

_To Dori for Ori while Nori’s away, poor boy. To Glóin and Óin and their families. To anyone who didn’t rush to Erebor to cash in the moment that damned dragon fell._

Haya snorted. _Those who did will bring back gold._

_All the gold in Erebor won’t buy food that doesn't exist,_ Fenja reminded her. _We can’t ask the people to give up their winter hoards to these visitors. Feasting now must not lead to famine later._

_Dáin won’t let us down._ Dís sat directly on the wet floor with a grunt. _He’ll gather provisions as he—_ oi, fiend! _Don’t you_ DARE! 

Kíli stood in the archway, filthy from mucking pony stalls. In the gloom, his teeth showed very white against his black beard. _Do I look like I want to die today? Fíli asks if we should take down the spruce._

Dís marked both the smile and the fact that he did not stammer. _He’s been put at ease,_ she thought and wondered who to thank. Fíli; Ori; Thorin; all. 

The old spruce on the eastern side of the gate had been listing ominously since the last strong wind. One gust might bring it down on the path below. What a welcome that would make! _Yes, do it now while the weather’s fine,_ she ruled. _But let another climb, my love. You and Fíli stay on the ground and split kindling._

Her son bowed in answer, pulled a face at Haya, and disappeared. With a plunge of brushes into soapy water, the three women returned to their strategies. 

At that moment, armies of laborers swarmed over the northwest cavern. Small teams could easily clean the bed quarters, common rooms, and bath-halls. But the Great Hall, with its intricate stonework and soaring archways, demanded the attention of an entire platoon. Guests would certainly want to view it at the height of its opulence, even if – as Dís swore – no ceremonies would be held there. 

_The banners are in good trim,_ Fenja observed. _Neither moth nor mouse nor mold got at them. We’ll wash and hang them tomorrow._

_Oh, how I loathe those ugly things,_ Dís confessed. _They remind me of banquets with Father._

Though she and her brothers had normally eaten in Fenja’s cozy kitchen, Thráin demanded their presence on the dais whenever he entertained. Hours of misery, forbidden to speak, even to each other! It was the first royal custom Thorin abandoned— but then, Thorin had welcomed few official visitors. 

_Ninur’s coming. Tharkûn, too, I hope. And the boys will have their fur-foot._ Although Dís used the polite term for hobbit, her phrasing cast Bilbo as some kind of domesticated animal, a pet that came when called. But better _fur-foot_ than any of Bhurin’s famous epithets. _They'll stay with us in the house, of course,_ she continued. _They are more than merely visitors. Which leads me to this: I want you all to attend the welcome as my family. _

Haya’s eyebrows shot up; she stopped scrubbing to listen. 

_There should be new clothes for the household, _Dís pressed on. _Personal crests, but no regalia. And no dais for the first-night feast— we all eat on the same level, and I will help serve. _Damn _court etiquette!_ she added in a little burst of passion. _What good does it ever do? This is my home. I won’t play at royalty here._

She dunked her brush and angrily attacked the next mead stain as if it were a personal insult.


	3. Hand to Hand

The evening was warm and the household weary from the day’s labors. Fenja produced cold sliced roast, bread, butter, pickles, and stout for all to share in the courtyard. 

Fíli, Kíli, and Ori sat together on the wall, swinging their feet while they ate. An afternoon visit to their friends at the forge had stoked their confidence in what was to come; now they talked and laughed softly amongst themselves, enjoying the scene before them. 

Dís watched them intently from her bench. At a lull in the conversation, she quietly rose and strode across the yard, withdrawing something from her caftan pocket to hand to Fíli. After one glance, he fisted his fingers around it and stuck it in his own pocket, and Dís returned just as quietly to her seat. 

No one present took much notice. They did not read defiance in Dís’ step or in her gaze, which strayed neither left nor right. They did not detect the flare of joy in Fíli’s eyes before natural caution tamped it down. He was too quick in his movements to allow a stray glimpse of what he held; if he had taken less care, the household might have caught sight of a flash of metal and gemstones. 

But they were tired, and the stout was strong, and the light was low, and the day was done.


	4. Plaits

_There_. Kíli drew back and handed over the mirror. _Good?_

He had twined Ori’s bangs into a tidy, flat braid that stretched across his forehead from one temple to the opposite ear. What Ori jokingly called his ‘mushroom cap’ had been neatly trimmed and a handsome set of silver beads threaded onto his sidelocks. 

Elated, Ori whooped at his own reflection. _Dori will spit!_

Though proud of his work, Kíli looked weary; he and Fíli had risen with the sun. By the time Ori awakened that morning Fíli was gone and Kíli’s hair already plaited. 

His crown had been drawn back smooth and glossy, fastened with the square clasp worn by all royal Durins. It fed into a thick four-strand queue that lay neatly between his shoulderblades, bound at intervals by wide silver rings. Only one pair of small finials weighted the ends of his long, tight-braided sidelocks. 

This austere style suited Kíli, but its ornaments put across a curious message. His emblem-clasp bore his own crest, as was proper. But the silver rings binding his queue were graven with the crests of his lineage – Thrór, Thráin, Thorin, Dís, Ganin – and his sidelock finials with the Heir’s. Clearly, these talismans had been gathered for a purpose: to shield and strengthen the family’s most vulnerable member. 

Kíli had spent the previous day in a lightless room off a corridor which Haya alone could navigate without a candle. Sock-clad for quiet footfall, she crept back and forth bearing warm tea and cold cloths to lay upon Kíli’s forehead. Her willingness surprised Ori, but Fíli assured him there was no real enmity between the two. 

_She’s like an older sister,_ he said. _Kíli lives to vex her, only he can’t right now; his head hurts too much._

Such pains plagued Kíli seldom but laid him out completely when they struck. He claimed to feel well now; at the very least he was determined to pretend. According to Bhurin’s messenger, their guests would arrive late that afternoon, and he would meet them Fíli’s side, wan-faced or no. 

Laying down the mirror, Ori spoke carefully. _You’re so kind to braid for me, Kíli, especially when you are still recovering. Do you… does _Fíli _think you are well enough to face everything that’s ahead?_

Unperturbed, Kíli took Ori’s hand and gave it a little shake. _I’ll b... be strong with you nearby, and he’ll be strong with me nearby._

As he withdrew, the ring on his finger - a sand diamond set in platinum - captured the light. Fíli wore its twin. Another message to decipher. 

The door hinges creaked, and Haya – comely in a new ochre apron-dress but no less sullen for that – showed herself. She flicked an appraising glance at Ori before turning her stony gaze upon Kíli. Apparently things between them had returned to normal. 

_They want to know where you are, _she flatly declared. 

_Haya, did, did you see Ori’s hair?_ Kíli sounded like a twenty-year-old angling for sweets. 

She ignored him and plowed on. _They’re all just sitting around downstairs, waiting on you two._ Some _people can sit around all day, I guess._

_H-Haya, you look different,_ sly Kíli persisted. _I, I don’t kn-know why, but you do. Doesn’t she, Ori?_

_Well… _Ori fumbled for something witty. _Now that my hair no longer covers my eyes…_

She snorted. But across her dour face flickered something like a smile, and it was not meant for Kíli.


	5. Pledges

Raised to revere beauty, Khazâd make art out of whatever comes to hand— even what grows from their own heads. A Khuzd’s hair is his pride made visible, so while the household might eschew formal dress at Dís’ request, it was free to pursue its own fancy from the neck up. 

Dís had just put the finishing touches on Fenja’s pale coronet. Now she beckoned to Ori. _Would you mind very much? You always braid so wonderfully for your brothers._

Ori gathered up her wealth of dark curls and thought of how he might squander this treasure. The scent of her pomade – a bold, dark, peppery rose – brought to mind the blossom-heavy trellises of the Shire. Inspired, he began to part and twist and weave. 

There followed a stretch of silence, which Kíli took as an opportunity to braid Fíli’s mustache. Ori’s eyes did not stray from his work, but his nervous mind wandered, ferreting out flaws in this too-easy peace. 

At last Dís ended the suspense. 

_Nori’s come back,_ she told them. Her mouth bit each word short. _He looked as if he’d been dragged backwards through a haystack. I would have sent him straight into the bath, but he insisted on giving his report first._

_Report?_ This from Fíli, who shook his head from side to side to test his mustache beads. _What’s to report?_

_Ninur is not coming with the others._

A stunned hush, broken by Kíli. _But he, he said…_

Fíli grasped his brother’s wrists. _It’s fine. We’ll send Nori back to look for him. He could find a brass pin in a pine forest—_

_No, listen. _Dís measured her words out carefully. _The elders made no plans with Ninur at all. They never told him of their intentions, though he might well know of them— and if they are ignorant of his, I for one won’t spoil their surprise. Ninur WILL come,_ she concluded. _But I doubt any will be as pleased to see him as WE will be._

If Kíli understood best by listening, what he comprehended now brought an ominous flush to his face. Dís’ words also goaded Fíli, but he resisted their call to unrest. _How did Nori come to learn such things?_ he asked. 

_I will tell you: he has an informant. Someone willing to eavesdrop on the elders._

_One of their own?!_

_No— there are other Khazâd coming. Strangers, though they won’t remain so for long!_

Though Fíli knew, he asked anyway: _What do they want?_

_What do you think? To see the King!_

Fíli recoiled slightly, and Dís instantly regretted her sarcasm. Dismay at so many changes of plan had shaken the reins of civility from her hands; now she hastened to regain her grasp. 

_They came a very long way, _she told Fíli, striving to sound more excited than she felt. _All the way up from the Brandywine, crossing over from Evendim. They met the elders out on the plain and persuaded them to travel all together as one band. _Yokels on a spree, _Nori calls them— highborn but not high-minded. Bhurin was much less kind. But they brought food, and _– here her tone turned conciliatory – _there are plenty of young folk, all eager to make friends with you._

Kíli and Ori grinned, but Fíli remained sober. _It can’t all be for fun, _he muttered. _Not if the elders intend otherwise._

_True. But Nori and his friend will keep us all one step ahead—_

_Will Nori and his friend kindly tell us where we’ll fit all these people?_ Fenja interrupted. 

_We’ll put the yokels in the cavern halls and send the elders to the lodge,_ Dís soothed her foster-mother. _They’ll be more comfortable, and they can travel to us easily every— oh, Ori, that’s lovely!_ She had caught sight of herself in the hand mirrors artfully angled by him and Fenja. 

Her sons’ eyes immediately swerved toward Ori’s creation: a lattice of coils and braids that spread out over Dís’ shoulders like a capelet. Ori stood blushing as if doubtful he could take full credit for such a masterpiece. 

_You could stick flowers in it,_ he mumbled. _Or ivy, if you’ve got any._

Now came the Heir’s turn. 

In preparation for certain rites, a chieftain entrusts himself first to spouse, then mother, then sister, then daughter. Dís in her time had plaited for both Thráin and Thorin; given the importance of the occasion, Ori expected her to plait for Fíli. But she passed the comb to Kíli, and once again the truth came home: a mate outranks a mother. 

Watching one brother braid for the other put a terrible lump in Ori’s throat. He’d seen this task done a thousand times – sometimes with teasing laughter, sometimes with businesslike haste – but he never knew it could be carried out with such tenderness. Back home, combs yanked and tore; dull shears snipped in crooked lines. Here, Fíli angled his face up like a flower to the sun; he sat tranquil as Kíli carefully wove his temple locks so as to proudly show, not hide, his long battle scar. And when Kíli was satisfied as to the result, he rubbed his nose playfully against Fíli’s— and without quite knowing why, Ori laid his hand over his heart. 

It wasn’t that he’d never seen two wedded people before. Though true-love pairings among their kind were infrequent, all Khazâd had parents, and from these, examples could be drawn. Dís and Ganin. Glóin and Minaen. Ori’s own parents. All shared respect and warmth and humor, yes— but not a hint of the mythical passion that fused the fortunate into one. So when Fíli leaned forward and kissed his Kíli full and softly upon his mouth, Ori realized how little he knew, how little he’d seen for one claiming to be a chronicler, all eyes and ears and memory. 

_This is how people love,_ he told himself. _I must not forget._

A papery touch upon Ori’s wrist. Fenja’s ancient eyes gleamed up at him. Brittle hands fluttering like moths’ wings, she signed in her lap so that only he could see. 

_(Beautiful, yes? Mithril-rare.)_

Ori nodded, grateful at last for Fenja’s thought-reading skill. Looking toward the brothers with love and worry, she signed again. 

_(Remember always: the oath we witness binds all of us. We guard their lives with our own.)_


End file.
